Moving house is rarely plain-sailing, especially when a new
country is thrown into the mix. My friend was moving over to France from
Scotland and had most things covered apart from the final journey by car. This
ought to have been relatively straight forward were it not for two practical
matters. Her steering wheel was on the wrong side of the car and she was
bringing a small menagerie with her.
As we all know, the French drive on the right hand side of
the road, and the British, the left. Motoring with a right-hand drive car in
France is perfectly fine until one encounters a
péage (toll station) on the autoroute. Unless the lone driver has
an exceedingly long left arm it is impossible to reach out of the front
passenger window to use the auto payment system. Therefore the driver is
required to alight from the vehicle, and walk to the machine in order to make
the payment.
This situation usually constitutes an intolerable stoppage
for the average French motorist, who delights in a quick-fire session of rabid
car horn tooting, just to hurry things along a bit. Piercingly encouraging
though this may be, it rarely speeds up the hapless right-hand-sider and
usually results in a fumbling or dropping of coins/cards, or when my husband,
Jack, is driving – a full-on argument.
The other significant-ish matter was the animals. My friend
announced that she would be bringing her pets. This sounded perfectly
reasonable until she mentioned the birds. Janet has two canaries. Obviously she
couldn’t leave them behind, and pretty little fellows though they are, nobody
seemed to want a couple of raucous yellow chirpers who have a tendency to shout
from dawn to dusk. Letting Bubble and Squeak loose in the wilds of Scotland was
unthinkable, so they had to come too.
With half a house, together with several noisy animals,
stuffed into Janet’s car, we decided she needed a co-driver/zoo-keeper for the
French leg. That job fell to me. We hatched a cunning plan. Janet would drive
the 460-ish miles from Scotland to Portsmouth, in the south of England, where I
would meet her. We would take the ferry from there to St. Malo and drive down
through the country to her new home in the south-west. I already live in France
so this meant I had to go backwards to go forwards.
On the day of our great voyage Jack dropped me off at
Toulouse airport for my flight to Heathrow airport in London. En route he began
issuing a string of instructions. “Don’t faff around shopping in London, the
traffic’ll be awful on a Friday. Get straight down to Portsmouth.”
“Oh of course not, I hadn’t even thought of going shopping.”
“Or the Natural
History Museum! If you start lurking in there you’re sure to miss the ferry.”
“Okay, okay!”
“And make sure you activate the location finder on your
phone so I can track you. I don’t want you getting lost.”
“Rightho, but I don’t think we will. Janet tells me she has
a GPS system in her car, a very large map and they do have excellent road signs
in France as you know.”
“Yes, but since the pair of you have a constant flow of
verbal diarrhoea, the GPS lady won’t be able to get a word in edgeways. Then
you’ll forget to look at the map and ignore the signs. You’ll not be
concentrating properly and, not for the first time in your joint travel
history, you’ll end up lost,” he declared, with a needle-eyed look.
He had me there… “Don’t worry,” I replied, using reassuring
tones, “we’ll be perfectly focussed.”
“Oh, and don’t let
her drive, I’ve seen the way she attempts a reverse manoeuvre.”
Jack finally ran out of counselling points and we parted
with our usual hug and kiss and my pledge to keep in constant touch. An
emotional moment though it was, I was returning the next day.
Increasingly, airports are becoming very different places. I
walked past the most recent signs of the times, honestly grateful for the
renewed emphasis French authorities had placed on securing the safety of
travellers. It was all very quiet and tranquil until I reached the check-in
queue for British Airways. Mayhem!
I have often wondered why it takes some travellers so long
to execute the very simple process of placing their luggage on a conveyor belt,
having their documents checked and receiving a boarding card. But it does, and
that day was no exception. I joined the queue of already weary people, and soon
realised why they were looking so irritated.
A group of four huddled around the check-in desk and seemed
to be cemented to the spot. Precious minutes passed as they fiddled with
passports and prodded suitcases. Bag tags were issued, completed, ripped up and
thrown in the bin, and new ones filled in. Just how hard could be to write down
a name and address? It was certainly confounding these passengers. Eventually
they managed and we all shuffled forward half a metre. This presented a new
challenge.
The family directly in front of me consisted of two adults,
one daughter and a screamer. I couldn’t be sure whether it was a little boy or
girl, but it certainly had a healthy pair of lungs. The next 15 minutes were
tortuous. Tiny howler upset everyone including the check-in staff. Evidently
unable to cope with the shrill and continuous assault on their ears their
registration rate was reduced from dead-slow to nearly full-stop, thus causing
yet more delays to the simplest of procedures. Meanwhile time was getting on.
I finally made it to the desk, presented my cabin-safe
squashy bag and was off to security to face my next challenge. Some years ago I
had a car accident which left me with several broken bones and these were
repaired with bits of metal in my legs. They enable my legs to operate very
nicely but when I walk through a security machine all hell is let loose.
Without fail I set off the scanner sirens and I’m instantly surrounded by armed
security officers, though usually they’re brandishing their wands, not their
guns. Today was no exception.
I was parked to one side and told to wait to be searched. Yet
again I was losing time. The lady at the front of the ‘being searched’ queue
was in the throes of being told to remove her belt, bracelets and enormous
hooped earrings. This was causing practical problems because she couldn’t get
them out and the security guard wasn’t allowed to touch them. Just as I was on
the point of hauling them out for her she managed all by herself and walked
back through the scanner. Once again she set it off.
Variously frustrated, we all studied this woman, who had
very little else to remove, trying to work out where the missing metal was.
Finally it was located. In a moment of inspired revelation she remembered that
she’d left a couple of euros in a hidden pocket – what a relief. Fortunately
things went much more smoothly for me. I was frisked, wanded and dabbed for
gunpowder and set back on my way.
The next challenge at Toulouse airport is passport control.
This usually morphs into a scrum because the now-late passengers are all
rushing to catch their flights. It’s a survival of the fittest situation here.
Elbows are sharpened, bags become shields and ones toes are normally trodden on
as we stampede towards the booths. Breathlessly I joined the sweaty throng and fought
my way to the departure gate just as the last passengers were boarding my
flight. Phew!
With the first leg of my journey successfully completed I
sent a text to Janet to see how far she had got. ‘Gretna Green’ was the
response. Although I’m not precisely sure where that is, it sounded suitably
south of Scotland so she must be making good progress. I sank back in my seat
only to have my nerves shattered by an announcement made by the pilot.
“Good afternoon everybody.
Although our flight was on time I regret to inform you that it is now
unavoidably delayed. One of our passengers has slipped on the ramp and broken their
leg. (Audible ‘tuts’.) She’s now off
to hospital but we have to find her baggage and remove it from the hold. This
could take a little time. (Sympathetic sighs
evolved into despondent groans.) I apologise for this inconvenience but
we’ll dig it out as soon as possible.”
Some while later we took off. While the flight went to plan,
inevitably, because of our delayed departure, we were left hanging around above
Heathrow airport for 20 minutes while a new slot was found for us. Not to worry, I kept telling myself, I’ve left lots of time of time to get to
Portsmouth, I hope…
Friday afternoons in any major city are often busy and
London is no exception. I was lucky enough to be picked up by a friend at the
airport and as we drove towards the centre of town we realised that my ambition
to shop and make the ferry check-in
time of 6.30pm was likely to be doomed. The traffic was already dead slow and
was quickly getting worse. I swallowed my disappointment at a retail therapy or
pop into my favourite museum opportunity lost, and instead we cruised through
Kensington, past Harrods and got back on the road that would take us to the
south coast.
Meanwhile poor Janet was battling with her own traffic
problems in the Midlands. I gave her quick progress call. “How are things
going?”
“Awful!”
“What a shame, what’s happened?”
“I’m still north of Manchester stuck in roadworks. I’ve got
over 260 miles to go, I’m never going to make it at this rate.” she wailed.
“Look, don’t worry. We’re making good time here, I’ll alert
the staff at the ferry check-in, I’m sure they’ll be fine. Anyway, how are the
animals doing?”
“The bloody cat howled for the first two hours. The dog’s
fine and I’ve no idea whether the canaries are dead or alive.”
“Oh dear, poor Jake (the cat), he must be terrified.”
“Poor Jake? What are you talking about? My nerves are
shattered here – poor me more like
it!”
It was clear to me that Janet was somewhat rattled. This is
never an easy state of affairs. A mercifully bad phone signal came to my aid
and I rapidly rang off. But now we had a travel predicament. Even if she made
it past the roadworks fairly soon she would then hit weekend rush hour in each
of the cities she had to bypass on the way down. With the best will in the world
it was unlikely that she’d make it in time.
I considered the possibilities. Drive over to Folkestone and
take one of the regular Channel Tunnel transporter trains to Calais? Or, wait
for a later ferry crossing at Portsmouth? That was a distinct possibility. I
could find out about that but it might risk losing our original ticket money.
The final option was the good old sweet talk routine. The obvious choice! The
check-in time was very early so I felt sure I could persuade an appropriate
official to allow us a little flexibility.
I was duly dropped off at Portsmouth ferry port nice and
early. I made a beeline for the check-in desk which was manned by a very pleasant
young man. I’ll admit that when I explained the situation I may have erred on
the animal-drama side of things a tad, but he couldn’t have been nicer. He
assured me that late check-ins were permitted, especially where animals were
concerned, and that I should keep him informed. With all that settled I sat
down and had a cuppa.
Two hours later and Janet still hadn’t showed. I didn’t like
to bother her but we only had five minutes to the standard check-in time so I
needed a progress report. After several failed attempts I managed to speak to her
on a severely crackly line and was horrified by her spat response of “70 miles
to go”. I repeated this to make sure I’d understood correctly but the line went
dead. This news made our chances of making the ferry sailing very slim indeed.
I returned to the check-in desk and was in the middle of confessing my friend’s
latest travel woes when a text came through from Janet. It was extremely easy
to understand.
7 miles to go, not 70!
I assured the lovely young man that she would arrive
imminently and dashed outside into the darkness to see the silhouette of a
white car with a large roof box sailing around the carpark, heading towards the
wrong ferry. I couldn’t shout from my position so grabbed my phone and called
her again to give her directions.
Guiding Janet in wasn’t the easiest of jobs and reminded me
of Jack’s sage instructions about her prowess as a driver. It seems that the
very large anchors decorating either side of the check-in door were posing a
problem, although quite why I had no idea. They were on the pavement and, ideally,
she was going to pull in on the road. She finally managed to avoid them, came
to a stop and thrust a bundle of travel documents into my hand. Within moments
we were booked in and heading off towards the ferry. What a relief!
It’s fair to say that at this stage my friend was in a bit
of a fluster. I couldn’t blame her, she’d had an awful journey and was
exhausted, but I do know that she’d not to be messed with when in this kind of
mood. Fortunately there were very few cars in our line so we decided to pull up
just before we reached the security area and let Spike, the dog, out for a wee
and check the animals. Janet decided that this should be my job and turning to
me said, “Look, I’ll stay in the car in case we have to move it and you check
the animals. Hurry up now, we’ll have to board any moment.”
“Okay, fine. Hang on I’ll check the birds first… Erm, how
many did you say you had?”
“Two.”
“Ah yes, but I can only see one. Hang on it’s so dark I can
barely see. There’s a great big fat one sitting on a perch and, ah, oh dear – the
other one’s the bottom of the cage!”
“Is it upside down?”
“No, right side up I think. Cor, it’s tiny isn’t it?”
“It’s alright then, and yes it is. Just get on with it will
you, I’ve been driving for 11 hours, I need a gin and tonic.”
“Okay, okay. The good news is the cat’s fine, poor lad mewing
like that…”
“Hurry up!”
“Blimey, you’re grumpy this evening. Right, oh deeear, the
bad news is that there’s a big wet patch on Spike’s bed.”
“Nooooo!”
“Nope, only kidding.”
Before Janet had an opportunity to lambast me with further
abuse I grabbed a lead and Spike and we trotted over to a grassy patch where he
could relieve himself in peace before the final stage, which was security
checks.
Janet and I may think we are tall, we certainly talk it at
times, but in fact we’re fairly close to the ground. The security guard lady
allocated to us was even closer. Nevertheless, with important wand in hand and
a belt full of interesting, serious-looking accoutrements, it was clear that
diminutive height would not present a problem to this feisty lady.
Her first error of judgement was to march up to the car and
stick her head in the window. She was now nose-to-nose with Janet. This
immediately caused Janet to recoil with a scowl and shriek “Oh!” Spike started
growling, a canary began trilling and I cleared my throat with operatic
efficiency in an effort to drown out the evensong. (I had no idea that canaries
sang their heads off in the pitch black.)
Our fearless guard was obviously used to this kind of
reaction and didn’t even flinch. Adopting a wonderfully officious manner she
said, “Evening, madam, open your top box please.”
“No,” came the snapped reply from my grumpy pal. I couldn’t
help thinking that this wasn’t her best response.
The officer persevered. “But I need to see in it.”
“You’re welcome to open it if you want but I’m not getting
out there to do it for you, I can’t reach.”
The lady looked at Janet, and Janet looked back, the
personification of a person about to explode – it’s the beetroot face, a dead
giveaway.
With admirable determination the officer had another go. “But
this is a security check madam and I can’t do it, you have to,” she gamely
insisted.
“I realise that and we want to drive onto the ferry. Do you
have a step ladder?”
Now this was slightly more helpful but it did flummox our
lady.
“No, madam, we do not.”
“I see. Well in that case I don’t know how you’re going to
be able to inspect it. However, as I said you are welcome to have a go but it
is very full with clothes so please replace them when they fall out.”
This was turning into a Mexican standoff. I shrank back in
my seat, hoping against hope that the canaries weren’t about to cheer us up
with a stirring chorus of Jerusalem.
That, together with my friend’s tone, would surely result in a total-car strip
search.
Our officer pondered Janet’s offer for a moment then had a
refreshingly new idea. “Right, we’ll have a look under the bonnet instead then
please, madam.”
Phew, that was a
relief, at least they could both reach that.
After a few moments fumbling (Janet obviously hadn’t been troubled
with the need to open her car bonnet before) she found a lever. The petrol flap
magically opened. Would the officer care to inspect the petrol cap? No? Didn’t
think so. Right, another lever was eventually located and up popped the bonnet.
Janet and our stalwart officer both studiously examined the engine parts, which
were declared safe.
The final part of our check was to have the rear of the car examined.
This contained the dog, the cat, the canaries and a great deal of miscellaneous
luggage. Spike was already less than impressed by the sight of a stranger
rummaging around his car, but managed to reduce his growls to a throaty hum. Jake
the cat looked bored and luckily the canaries seemed to have gone to sleep. We
were confirmed safe to continue our travels and waved on to board the ferry.
Our overnight voyage was blissfully peaceful. All animals
were fed and bedded down comfortably, and we dined and relaxed, and then slept
well in our hobbit-sized cabin. Ideal for us.
We were roused the next morning by gentle music coming from
somewhere in the cabin followed by several announcements. We grabbed a quick
breakfast and rushed back to the car, apprehensive about our animals – but we
needn’t have been. Spike was thrilled to see us, his little tail wagging madly.
Jake was watchful and looking decidedly as thought he’d prefer to be somewhere
else and even the canaries were still alive. Bienvenue en France! We were good to go!
Our journey down through the country was easy, uneventful
and crowned with the bluest skies and warm autumn sunshine. Jack tracked us all
the way. He called every now and again to make sure we were still on the
correct side of the road and to confirm that we were travelling in the right
direction. Where would I be without my faithful Jack?
We decided to refuel and eat at a service station with a
grassy area so Spike could have a run. We pulled into an ideal place, bought a
couple of large sandwiches and opened up the car doors so everyone could have a
proper breath of French fresh air. The canaries immediately began singing their
heads off and preening. Jake assumed an Oscar Wildesque look by draping himself
across his cat bed and sniffing the air in a purrfectly languid fashion. That
left Spike who bounded out of the car excitedly and started dashing around,
examining his surroundings.
We were all in heaven, that is, until Spike found an open
storm drain. We politely waited until a fellow traveller had finished peeing in
the gentle flow before allowing Spike to potter around in the clear water up
stream. Thinking we were in a safe spot we munched happily on our lunch, relaxing
for 10 minutes in the sun.
Unfortunately something caught Spike’s attention; he
galloped off back to the drain. To our horror we watched as he disappeared into
a large cement pipe that was partially concealed by dense brambles. Dropping my
lunch I yelled, “Spike – get back here! Janet, call him, there might be ragondan in there.”
“Spike, Spike,
come!” she bellowed at the pipe. Then turned back to me, “What are ragondan
anyway?”
“You know, they’re also called coypu, or nutria – animals
that look like a cross between a big water rat and a beaver.”
“Oh no, they’re
massive! SPIKE!”
This caused a reaction from the assembled picnickers, but
nothing immediate from the drain. We were in the process of berating ourselves
for being so careless and working out a rescue plan when a small brown nose
poked out of the pipe. Spike had returned and was completely unscathed. That’s
inquisitive Jack Russells for you – speaking of which, at that moment an SMS
appeared on my screen. It was from another Jack:
You’ve not moved for 25 minutes. Are you OK?
After explaining to Jack that neither the car’s fuel tank, our
stomachs, or the dog’s bladder were capable of hanging on for more than 100 km,
we resumed our journey, driving down through the country watching the terrain
change and the temperature rise. Seaside flatlands exchanged places with rolling
hills. Triffid-like windmills lined our route to be replaced with vineyards. We
played games, trying to work out the wording on the tourist information signposts.
Janet’s response to one in particular reminded me that she’d need to begin
French lessons very quickly. Then finally we were on familiar territory, just a
few kilometres from home.
We pulled off the country lane into Janet’s new driveway.
Her house is only a short distance from ours. It was a typically gorgeous
October evening and Jack was there too, fiddling with something technical. We
piled out of the car and let Spike run in the enclosed garden. The canaries
hollered in excitement at coming to a place that was definitely warmer than
Scotland and even Jake deigned to look interested. It had been a long journey,
my friend had done incredibly well to manage so much of it all by herself and we
hope she’ll be as happy as we are in our little corner of France.
The situations we faced, and adventures we had, were so
extraordinary that I decided to share our experiences. Writing the story was just
one part of the challenge. I needed an illustrator who would be able to bring
the key characters to life. Happily, my search ended quickly when I found
Maggie Raynor. 
